


lay us down (we're in love)

by chromyrose



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Character Study, Ice Skating, Introspection, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Self Confidence Issues, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromyrose/pseuds/chromyrose
Summary: He meets me where I am. It was Viktor's love that taught Yuuri how to love himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had been toying with the idea of writing a Viktuuri fic for the past few weeks now, but I didn't have a solid idea or even a jumping off point until inspiration suddenly struck earlier this week. One of my absolute favorite things about this pairing is that it defies that familiar adage, "No one can love you until you love yourself," which I think is complete bs. Writing this in such a way that expressed Yuuri thriving and loving himself _because_ he is being shown how to was my main goal. 
> 
> As a person with depression and anxiety, I may have projected some of that onto Yuuri; it is personally my opinion that he is depressed at the beginning of the series. Whether you agree or not, I really hope you appreciate this story. 
> 
> Please note that this was written before episode 10 aired, and is only compliant with the series until episode 9.
> 
> The title is from Panic! at the Disco's _The End of All Things_ , which lead singer Brendon Urie wrote as his wedding vows.

Yuuri won’t admit to himself that he is counting down the days until his coaching contract with Celestino ends; he’s afraid that once he does, it’ll be plain on his face for his rink mates, his roommate, and Celestino himself to see.

So he keeps to himself for his last few days in Detroit, slowly packing up the last five years of his life whenever Phichit isn’t around. It hurts to be leaving, he thinks, but it hurts even more that he doesn’t know whether he’s going to come back. He’s not working on any more programs of his own, but he still trains on the ice, and the _shick shick_ of his blades carving up the rink is the only sound that can almost drown out his shame.

The day he leaves, Phichit takes a selfie with him to post to Instagram, tags it “#besties”, “#youvegotafriendinme,” and “#myheartwillgoon,” in addition to the dozen other tags he puts on every post. Then he gives Yuuri a hug and promises that the next time he’s on the ice, he’ll be there to cheer him on. It strikes Yuuri all over again how much he’ll miss Phichit.

Celestino accompanies him to the airport, because he is a good man who cares about all his students, even the disappointments. He also gives Yuuri a hug, practically crushing him despite Yuuri’s natural cushioning, and the obligatory kisses on either cheek.

“You’re a good skater, Yuuri.” Celestino says finally, squeezing Yuuri’s arms. “Don’t give up on yourself.” He pauses, then adds with a tiny grimace. “And please, learn to cut yourself some slack.”

\--

After a very long plane ride that Yuuri sleeps through with the help of multiple doses of dramamine, and then a shorter but no less stressful ride from Narita International Airport to Hasetsu, Yuuri eats his mother’s katsudon for the first time in years. He allows his family to spoil him, and they’re very good at it – he does a small share of chores for the inn and the hot springs, but when he retreats to his room to mope they leave him to it. His mother and father never pry, even though they’re the ones who fronted all the costs, financial and emotional, that started the moment he rushed home from the Ice Castle, flushed with the joy of a new-found dream. The medals and awards he has won over the years are still gleaming, because Mari had taken to polishing them whenever she was missing him.

In the private quarters of their complex, the family’s actual home, there are photos lining the walls because his family have always been sentimental people. Yuuri looks at the pictures of himself, a meter tall at most, bundled in chunky sweaters with a rosy red nose; back then he’d been more graceful on the ice than off of it. 

(To be fair, though, that was before anyone noticed he had astigmatism. Glasses immediately improved his hand-eye coordination on solid ground when he got them.)

 _I’ve let him down,_ he thinks regrettably as he smoothes his hand over the frame of one such photo. He catches the thought in his mind and wrinkles his nose. _Why am I so intent on punishing myself?_

The answer is as terrifying as it is obvious; Yuuri doesn’t like himself. He traces his memory back to try and figure out when it started, knowing the exercise is futile – it doesn’t particularly matter _when_ , or even _why_ , just _what_. What does he plan on doing about it?

He leaves steamed buns for Vicchan, who used to love it when Yuuri cut them up into pieces and slid them down to him under the table, then grabs his skates and heads up to the Ice Castle. He thinks of Viktor, long hair trailing behind him like ribbons while he skates (tries not to think of Viktor, grin plastered on his face, offering a “commemorative photograph”), and then turns his brain off, lets his body do the work. 

When he shows it to her, Yuuko squeals, and that only adds to the dopamine rush Yuuri gets from skating. And, if he’s honest with himself, skating this particular program.

\--

One day he gets mauled by Vicchan at the genkan, and it throws him for a loop because Vicchan was never this big. Also, he remembers belatedly, Vicchan is dead.

And then his mother is tittering, because _Viktor_ is in _their bath_. He’s larger than life, a deity rising from the steam the way he’s a deity undulating on the ice. He’s nothing like the man who callously offered Yuuri a consolation prize; right now, Yuuri doesn’t even remember that that man existed, too busy following rivulets of water down the dips between Viktor’s muscles.

After a whirlwind of mythological proportions, Yuuri comes out of his daze with a renewed goal and a new skating coach. For the first few days he’s pinching himself, ready to wake up at any moment and then probably subsequently cry into his pillow, but after training starts in earnest, he has no choice but to believe his senses – there’s no way his subconscious can invent the all-over ache of shredding muscle, or the blisters, blood, and bruises of breaking in a new pair of skates.

There’s also no way his subconscious could invent the moments of intimacy that have every cell in his body at attention. Even in his wildest dreams, Viktor never whispered close enough to let his breath ghost over Yuuri’s neck, or pressed their foreheads together as if gunning for a mind meld. The Viktor of Yuuri’s dreams has always been unattainable, dancing close enough to see but far enough to be just out of reach. The flesh and blood Viktor seems to crave touch the way plants crave sunlight, as if he’d die without it.

Sometimes Yuuri wonders if this, truly, is why Viktor stays. If it’s because Yuuri makes it so easy, yielding to every touch, becoming something malleable the minute Viktor’s hands are on him like he’s clay in the clutches of a sculptor. Even when Yuuri doesn’t think the touches are appropriate (because there’s no way he can accept this kind of touch from Viktor when it doesn’t [can’t] mean the same thing for both of them) his vocal chords become Viktor’s, too, and he can’t say a word. He can only hope that someday, Viktor will define his intentions with more than just a Cheshire Cat-smile, and that whatever that definition is, it doesn’t crush Yuuri under its weight.

\--

They bathe together now – that’s become a thing. Yuuri strips down and Viktor doesn’t even care to pretend that he isn’t looking. He eyes Yuuri’s body with hunger every time.

 _He’s a foreigner,_ Yuuri reminds himself patiently, praying for his staccato heartbeat to return to normal. _He’s your coach, he’s making sure his investment in you is paying off, he–_

“Yuuri,” Viktor drawls lazily, the heat of the bath melting his voice. “I almost miss when you were soft. No good for skating, of course, but you were so beautiful.”

He cups a hand, dips it in the hot spring, and pours the water he collects down over Yuuri’s collarbone. His fingers follow, tracing the shallow line between Yuuri’s pectorals, the demarcation of the end of his ribcage. His touch is underwater when it smoothes over the skin of his stomach, chiseled by nothing but stretch marks.

“I r-really can’t handle you teasing me,” Yuuri says, voice cracking pathetically. There’s too much dissonance between his body accepting Viktor’s touch and his mind resisting Viktor’s words. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…_

Viktor’s expression flickers the way a candle does, burning between ire and empathy. “Is that what you hear when I praise you, Yuuri? Do I sound like I’m mocking you?”

Yuuri shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at that imploring, irresistible expression, but it’s already been burned into his retinas. He’s naked and pinned to the walls of the bath by Viktor’s presence alone. He can’t find a way out of this except through it.

“It’s not just you,” he mumbles, hoping to soften the blow. _This isn’t about you, Viktor, this is about me. My deficiencies. My flaws._ “I-It’s everyone. It’s… it’s me.”

There’s silence except for the water, and Yuuri opens his eyes one at a time, to peek before he is assaulted head-on by whatever gut wrenching expression will be on Viktor’s face. He’s surprised when he sees it’s his coaching face: stoic and contemplative.

“Has anyone else ever tried as hard as I have to get through to you?” He wonders, and whether or not he intended to make Yuuri sick with guilt, that is what happens.

“I’m sorry, Viktor, I just—“

Viktor shuts him up with a severe look, then touches his face; his hand is clammy and beginning to prune.

“I’m not asking you to be sorry,” he murmurs, calling Yuuri something in Russian in a warm tone that suggests it could be a perfectly genuine term of endearment or a painfully ironic slur. “I’m asking you to trust me. Turn your brain off and _trust me_. As your coach, I demand one-hundred percent of your trust, Yuuri. When we’re on the ice I say ‘jump’ and you ask ‘how high?’ I want you to afford me that luxury no matter where we are.”

Yuuri’s throat is dry, even when he swallows hard. How embarrassing, to be likened to a dog. How embarrassing, that he likes it so much. “I—“

“Shhhhhhhhh,” Viktor interrupts. He uses both of his hands to scoop water this time, and pours what he can slowly on the crown of Yuuri’s head, wetting his hair again and forcing him to instinctively shut his eyes. “I know my demands are harsh. But if I had even the smallest doubt you couldn’t meet them, I would be in Russia, not here.”

Yuuri’s body feels so hot, and it’s not from the baths, not from his Eros; it’s a heat that’s making his stomach feel simultaneously full and flipped inside-out. It crawls up his skin to his throat, his neck, until he has to bury his burning face against Viktor’s cool chest for reprieve.

\--

On the ice, Yuuri is a body. He is legs with blades for feet, a heart in each hand so he can convey emotion through his arms, and ears for listening to Viktor’s critique.

“A quad toe loop, Yuuri!” Viktor demands, and Yuuri nods to show he’s heard as he tears across the rink, building up the momentum necessary for the jump. When he lifts off the ice he immediately realizes he doesn’t have enough height for four full rotations, and turns the jump into a triple. His landing is clean, but he groans loudly and pulls at his hair all the same.

“Yuuri–!” Viktor calls, and Yuuri is quick to interrupt. “I know, I’ll do it again!”

“No,” Viktor shouts. “Come here!”

Yuuri comes to a full stop where he is, and turns with shame to skate the length of the rink to where Viktor is standing, watching him with keen eyes. Before Yuuri can open his mouth, likely to babble a stream of apologies, Viktor puts a hand up, then turns it into a single finger.

“Before you say anything, tell me what you did wrong.”

“I- I didn’t have enough height on my jump, I should have waited until I was going faster, then—“

Viktor makes a noise like a wrong answer buzzer, and Yuuri grimaces.

“…I didn’t trust you.” He sighs, the toe of his skate picking a small hole in the ice. “I’m sorry.”

Viktor’s demeanor shifts from stern coach to disappointed… friend? Whatever they are when they aren’t on the ice. Yuuri hasn’t put a word to it yet, because the idea of doing so always makes his stomach twist.

“I’m not mad that you didn’t trust me, although you could stand to do that much more often,” Viktor sighs. “I’m mad because you don’t trust yourself, Yuuri. From where I was standing, I could see you had plenty of height. You could have gotten all four rotations in, even if the landing would have been shaky. But you didn’t even let yourself try.”

Viktor skates forward, until his legs are flanking Yuuri’s on either side. He reaches up to touch his cheek, and Viktor’s hand is cold against Yuuri’s skin, which is flushed from exertion. He traces down the soft curve of his face, the line of his jaw, and smiles.

“How old are you in that picture on the wall outside your bedroom?”

If Yuuri wasn’t already red, he’d be blushing at the light twinkling in Viktor’s eyes as he brings up that old photo, the same one Yuuri’s gaze lingered on when he first moved back in with his parents.

“I don’t remember exactly, but I was in Kindergarten at the time. So… either four or five, I guess.”

Viktor looks delighted, and it’s obvious when he clears his throat that he’s trying to make himself serious. It’s kind of embarrassing, but the butterflies in Yuuri’s stomach flutter around when he thinks that Viktor must really love that photo. It’s not that he wasn’t an adorable child, even Yuuri can be objective about that, but when he thinks back to that time he feels protective of the person he used to be, that little boy, and Viktor’s appreciation of that photo feels like an appreciation of Yuuri beyond the typical antics Viktor gets up to.

“You look very comfortable on your skates in the picture,” Viktor smiles. “Had you been skating for long?”

“No,” Yuuri recalls carefully, not sure he knows where this tangent is going. “I had just started, I think. But I wasn’t falling anymore by that point, which was nice. It felt good to skate.” He smiles a little unconsciously. “Especially because Mari couldn’t; she was always better than me at most things, being older and less clumsy.”

Viktor laughs out loud, and the sound echoes and fills the Ice Castle. “So Yuuri has always been a natural at skating,” he comments. “I’m sure he wasn’t scared of anything.”

“I was scared of everything,” Yuuri corrects him immediately. “But kids are tenacious. Even if they’re afraid, if something looks really fun, they’ll keep trying to do it anyways.”

“Aha,” Viktor says as he snaps his fingers, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “So you skated then because it was fun, and it made you happy. Why do you skate now?”

Yuuri is caught off-guard by the question, which slips past his defenses and strikes right at his heart. _Why?_ Because skating is what Yuuri does; as a child with his friends, as a teenager, with an amateur coach and his own natural ability, entering regional competitions with his heart in his throat. Because skating is what he’s best at, and he wants to keep doing it, to skate until his legs fall off, to live on the ice. Because he saw Viktor Nikiforov on the international stage when he was still in elementary school, and he wanted to reach out and touch him–

Viktor takes Yuuri’s two hands and pulls him across the ice, pivots himself on one foot and starts spinning him in a wide circle; at first Yuuri thinks he’s screaming, but his own voice echoes back into his ears and he’s _laughing_.

“We don’t skate because it’s safe,” Viktor says, slowing to a stop before letting go of Yuuri’s hands and skating up behind him. “We skate because it’s _fun_. If you’re thinking too much about what can go wrong, you’re going to forget the thrill that made you take this up.”

Yuuri turns to face Viktor, who readily grabs him by the chin and bring his face in, presses their foreheads together. Every one of Viktor’s exhales tickles Yuuri’s lip, and every one of Yuuri’s hairs is on end because all he has to do is tilt his head and they’d be _kissing_.

“Do you love skating, Yuuri?” Viktor murmurs slowly, intimately. He’s still holding Yuuri by the chin, and has his other hand resting in the small of Yuuri’s back. Yuuri looks into Viktor’s eyes and doesn’t answer right away, hoping to draw this moment out as long as he can.

“I love skating,” he sighs, pressing his shaking torso to Viktor’s. “I love it.”

Viktor chuckles deep in his chest, and Yuuri feels the vibrations. “Then leave the judging to me, and skate.”

\--

Competition season starts, and Yuuri medals. And medals, and medals. He never takes the podium for granted, because he’s never skated with so much on the line – the Grand Prix final gold medal means everything to him, and every gold along the way is another month, another week, another day, another minute with Viktor at his side.

Their relationship grows organically, twists itself like a plant following the Sun. He’s come to terms with his love for Viktor, more than Agape, more than Eros, more than the posters he put up on every wall in his room so that Viktor would be the last thing he saw at night and the first thing he saw in the morning – he’s over his embarrassment about the posters. They are nothing compared to the real thing, so insignificant that Yuuri doesn’t care that Viktor knows he’s adored him since he was still losing baby teeth. Viktor _likes_ knowing that about him, laughs with Yuuri and not at him because they’re in this together. 

A year ago Yuuri would never have believed that someone like Viktor could love someone like him, but Viktor’s found endless ways to prove it, time and time again.

Viktor is not perfect; he proves as much every time he drinks a little too much alcohol, or when the stakes of a competition get in his head and he can’t handle being a coach and a lover at the same time.

(Not that they’ve become lovers in the technical sense, yet, but Yuuri knows that it’ll happen when it’s supposed to. He just hopes that “when it’s supposed to” is behind a locked door, unlike their kiss on international television, and not anywhere near Phichit’s smartphone.)

Viktor is not perfect, but neither is Yuuri. It’s enough for Yuuri that their flaws complement one another’s, that they both have the same second love, that Viktor never tires of proving and expressing his love for Yuuri even when Yuuri’s knee deep in insecurities and sinking fast. Yuuri hopes that he does something similar for Viktor, that he gives him a reliable place to grow comfortable with who he is when he takes the mask off.

Yuuri wants to take the initiative, and he wants to do it in a way that involves none of his Eros persona. He wants to do something for Viktor as shy, awkward, oversized-glasses-and-a-tummy Yuuri. So even though he could choose a flashy ring, one that will grab the notice of anyone who looks, one that fits Viktor’s larger than life presence perfectly, instead he gets a very simple band. Humble, understated, something that doesn’t demand attention, because he isn’t out to prove that he owns Viktor. All he wants to show is that he loves him.

He picks the gold band from what seem to be endless options, each only minutely different from the previous one. He holds the one he likes best in his fingers until the metal is warm, and it never stops feeling right. As he hands it to the jeweler, he notices a small sign beside the display case. 

“The inside can be engraved?” He asks, falling in love with the idea immediately. The jeweler smiles and tells him that typically couples opt to put their initials inside their rings, or the date of their anniversary. 

But the idea of “Y.K.♥N.V.” makes Yuuri remember middle school a little too keenly, and that’s an embarrassment he may never get over. And they don’t really have an anniversary, with how naturally they came together. If any date seems significant enough, it’s the day of the Grand Prix Final, but Yuuri doesn’t want to jinx things. If he loses, it won’t be a day he wants commemorated that way. 

He thinks about other messages, always keeping in mind that he only has so much space. _’You meet me where I am,’_ he thinks, remembering the press conference he gave to announce his theme for the season – but that was in Japanese, and he’s pretty sure no one has ever actually translated it for Viktor. Maybe he will, when he gives his wedding vows...

When he’s about to quit, to buy the ring and put off engraving for a later date, the perfect message occurs to him. He neatly prints it on a paper for the jeweler, who smiles even though he has never heard of figure skating and can’t know the significance of the line. 

\--

Yuuri is determined to propose before the Grand Prix Final; he needs to know that Viktor will stay with him regardless of the medal he brings home, if any at all. But he is still scared of ruining what they have, so he puts it off until the night before. Many of the big names in international skating - many of their _friends_ \- have opted to have dinner in the same restaurant, but other than Phichit and his protégé Leo and Guang-Hong, there are no press harassing them. Yuuri’s leg is shaking, and the cliché of the ring box burning a hole in his pocket is unfortunately real. 

Viktor keeps sending smiles his way, when he’s not taking Yuuri’s hand under the table, or leaning in to whisper some gossip or dirty secrets he has on a passing skater. He thinks Yuuri’s nervous about the competition, not that he isn’t, so he’s trying to be as much in Yuuri’s space as possible, to provide all the mental and physical support he can. 

It’s driving Yuuri insane. He uses his impatience and frustration to push himself up out of his seat, to the surprise of everyone at his table. He calls Viktor’s name, and doesn’t realize how loudly or forcefully he says it until the room falls silent around them. Viktor cuts himself off mid-laugh at something Georgi said, and looks up at Yuuri with wide eyes. 

Yuuri looks around, suddenly a deer in the headlights under the gazes of all these half-strangers. Somehow, Phichit meets his gaze over the top of his phone, which is undoubtedly recording video, and he winks and gestures for him to _‘Go on, do it!’_

“Viktor,” Yuuri says again, narrowing his gaze in on his lover’s blue eyes and nothing else. He lets the rest of the room, their audience, fade away into nothing. Viktor’s gaze is quizzical, and Yuuri delights in how vulnerable he looks. He’s the only one who can make Viktor make those faces. “I… I’ve been really grateful to you for being my coach for the past year. More than grateful, even! So… so much more than just that. 

“I’ve been skating for you for as long as I can remember; it was my dream as a kid just to be able to catch up to you someday. To show you what I am capable of as your competitor. It’s almost funny that I didn’t get to show you any of that except by accident, just when I was on the verge of quitting. 

“But then you came to me, and it was almost... surreal. You were everything I imagined you would be, but you were also so many things I never considered – you're not just an idol, you're a person. And you look at me the way no one else ever has, and you make me feel like no one else ever has, but most of all… you taught me how to love myself. And no one but you ever could.”

Yuuri sinks down onto one knee, and someone in the room whistles. He doesn’t know if this is how proposals are done in Russia, and it’s not exactly traditional for Japan, either, but they’ve been playing things by ear the whole time. From the way Viktor’s eyes become impossibly wider, it’s obvious he understands what’s coming. 

The blue velvet box that Yuuri pulls from his pocket and opens for his lover’s eyes probably helps.

Under that gaze, the line that Yuuri has carefully rehearsed (in his mirror, in front of Makkachin, even in front of his sister once before she pulled him into her bosom, tousled his hair and pretended not to cry) dissipates on his tongue. _”Will you do me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me?”_ becomes a too loud, voice cracking, “Will you marry me, Viktor?!” 

Viktor doesn’t even look at the ring; before the last syllable of his name is done rolling off of Yuuri’s tongue, he’s already dived out of his seat and pulled Yuuri to his chest by the shoulders, a noise that’s half-laugh and half-sob tearing from his chest beside Yuuri’s ear. 

“Да, yes, oh _yes_!” He shouts over the applause and cheers and wolf-whistles. Or maybe it only sounds like he’s shouting because he’s so, so close. 

Yuuri wishes he could hold him even closer.

\--

When they get back to their hotel room, they lock the door and kiss. Slow, languid kisses turn into rapid, burning kisses, and then back again; the emotional rollercoasters inside them make it hard to settle on just one tempo. Viktor pushes Yuuri onto the bed and straddles him, whining as he kisses Yuuri’s neck. 

“I’m so mad that you’re competing tomorrow,” he laments, though he doesn’t sound mad at all. “All I want to do is fuck you into this mattress, but that would probably ruin your odds of winning.” 

“Probably,” Yuuri agrees, laughing at the needy way Viktor is nosing at the pulse in his neck. “Viktor, Viktor, come here Viktor,” he gasps, reaching for his cheeks to pull his face up. Their eyes meet again, and Viktor’s smile could end all wars, cure all disease, turn tsunamis and tornadoes into beautiful rainbows -- too bad Yuuri has no intention of sharing it. 

They kiss again, short and sweet, and Viktor rolls onto his back beside Yuuri, holds his hand up so the ring can catch the soft lamp light. 

“I love it,” he murmurs, not for the first time that night. “You didn’t get one for yourself, did you?” 

“That would have been way too presumptuous,” Yuuri cries, looking from the ring down to his fiancé’s strong cheekbones. Viktor laughs.

“As if I could say anything but yes to you,” he drawls, voice thick with adoration. “But I’m glad you didn’t. I want to buy yours.”

And even though Yuuri knew Viktor would feel that way, that certainty still awakens the butterflies in his stomach. Viktor continues to gaze at his ring, lips quivering from the strain of holding a smile for so long. 

“But you won’t have one to wear tomorrow… You should wear this one while you skate.” Viktor decides, already sliding it off of his finger. “All eyes will be on you. I want everyone to see what you mean to me.” 

Yuuri shakes his head against his pillow. “You have to wear it. So everyone can see that _you_ are _mine_ ,” he grins. “I’m the one who got away with the better catch.” 

Viktor kisses Yuuri’s lips oh-so tenderly. “You’re wrong. I’ll devote every day of my life to proving that.” 

(And doesn’t that sound like the best way to live?)

“I can’t wear your ring anyways,” Yuuri continues. “My finger is much larger than yours, Viktor.”

Viktor looks skeptical, and grabs Yuuri’s left hand quickly to assess it. Yuuri snatches it back when Viktor starts to slide the ring on his fourth finger, and takes Viktor’s left hand to press their palms together instead; Viktor has long, elegant, bony fingers, while Yuuri’s are visibly shorter and thicker. 

“You’ve made your point,” Viktor sighs, rolling his ring between his fingers and smiling down at it; his expression suddenly shifts, and Yuuri knows that’s the moment he notices the engraving. Anticipation bubbles up inside of him again as he waits for Viktor’s reaction.

“Stay Close To Me,” he reads slowly, savoring every word. He looks up at Yuuri, stupefied and adorable.

“This is the name of my program from last year’s Grand Prix Final,” he starts, and Yuuri nods. 

“This is the name of my program that you skated in the video that brought me to Japan,” he adds. Yuuri nods again, a grin threatening to split his face. Viktor’s eyes sparkle with tears, and he laughs and rolls himself onto Yuuri, pinning him down with his hands and knees. 

“I love you,” Viktor says so sincerely, Yuuri finds himself swallowing the words without protest or complaint. He places his hands around the back of Viktor’s head, pulls him down into a kiss that says what his words can’t. 

\-- 

After the Grand Prix Final, Viktor proposes to Yuuri in the front room of Yu-topia, with a white-gold twin to his own ring. The engraving inside reads: “Never Let Me Go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've been this nervous posting a fic in a long time, so please let me know what you think with a comment if you have the chance (kudos and bookmarks are also deeply appreciated). 
> 
> Find me elsewhere on [twitter](http://twitter.com/haikyuutiie) or [tumblr](http://zahhaked.tumblr.com).


End file.
